The Zombies of Lancaster

by Frank Weltner

  "Come here, my pretty," the Chief said, as he smashed in the face of a zombie boy. The kid fell like a hamper of bricks on a hod carrier's slab. He hit the earth and assumed total immobility. "He won't be moving again," the Chief said. "Thank god for that." He then dispatched two more and pushed three of them backward with the tip of his shotgun.

  The officers went about their business quietly and efficiently. The sheriff had taught them well, and the scene of mayhem that surrounded them left no uncertainty that they were next on the menu if they didn't get down to business and kill them all before they were overrun and decimated inside the approaching horror they now found themselves caught up in.

  Just as the core of the zombie army seemed about finished, fifty more came around the corner covered in citizen blood and guts. The tragedy of painful death hung from their mouths and spawned a surreal abstract in blood across their bodies. The police had become a mean team, all of a sudden, ready to kill at a moment's notice. Their steel weapons swirled high above their heads as they crushed the skulls of the biters, sending them into a place of final death. Their crushed skulls spelled the end of their deadly resurrections.

  A little girl was carried by its mother who was eating her flesh away. She staggered toward the cops. The mother was not even aware of her impending destruction. The girl in her arms was already zombie-like as her mother chewed on her intestines as though she were enjoying them greatly. "These fuckers are something else!" the Chief said to himself as he smashed the little girl's brain, then dispatched her mother. Both of them fell like broken trees onto the blood ravished pavement and merged inside the collection of irregular flesh below their stomping boots.

  "Smash the heads of the victims, boys, or they will be rising up and attacking us in short order. They are infected and are becoming like their killers at this very moment. Use your boots on them."

  "Some of them haven't done anything to us yet," one of the officers protested.

  "So, you want to give them the first bite? Don't be an idiot. Even the living who are bitten are done for, and in a few minutes, when they fall and then wake up, they will be walking all over Lancaster looking for victims. Don't let that happen to them. It's easier on them to smash their heads and make an end to them. You wouldn't want to awaken as a killer, either. So, just do your jobs, and maybe we may still go home to a nice warm bed tonight instead of lying here dead in the street. It's your choice, guys. Do your job, because you already know what their job it is. Theirs is to kill and eat you. Yours is to stop them before that happens."

  Another squadron of droolers marched upon the cops with staggering swiftness. They came around the corner and calmly faced the reddened shotgun butts and batons, offering their easily cracked skulls to the impending mayhem. So far, the score was police victims, 0, and immobilized zombies, more than 400 dead and gone. The officers continued to do their jobs until their arms began to ache from the bashing of heads, but the zombies continued to round the corners and headed directly into the fighting force of policemen. The zombie's numbers grew exponentially minute-by-minute, and it soon became obvious they'd need more forces to do the necessary job of containment and mopping up of these attacking dead men who were marching straight into them through the awaiting streets.

  As they continued their work, the sheriff saw a contingent of newbies who were coming to help the police in the form of the high school football team. He was surprised to see them led by his son, Aiden. They had been busy, because they were blood-stained from head to foot.

  "I figured you'd be here, dad. We came to help, and we brought baseball bats with us from the gym."

  I can tell from their bloody tips, you already know how to kill them, son.

  "Crush the head," Aiden said.

  "My boy isn't dumb, Chief. He'll make good army cannon fodder for the feds, sir," the sheriff said, "but if he signs with the recruiter, I'll have to kill him, sir."

  The Chief laughed. "Indeed, we both shall have to kill him if he's that stupid."

  "I'm not," Aiden said. "Not to worry about me joining some cannon fodder squad. Now, let's get these bastards. They've killed enough of my friends already, and we are determined to end them here and now."

  "Nice to meet you, Aiden, the Chief said, “but please don't get bitten."

  "They won't be biting me, sir. I already know how to stay alive in this game."

  The kids ran up to the zombie force and began doing their job of clubbing them into the pavement. The police stood back and watched them work. They took a welcome break for a few moments, admiring the dedication and love the football team had for their new jobs as citizen enforcers. Their young strong arms swung their bats with a mighty force which was more than enough to crush skulls and not take names.

  "Kill them all! Let God sort them out!" one of the kids yelled as he smashed into their skulls with his baseball bat.

  That seemed to be the name of their game. The chaos of war in Iraq had made its mark on them as they took the place of their fathers who manned the death filled turf wars in Baghdad and Kabul. Now, it was their turn to show their stuff.

  A dog ran through the crowd of zombies. Their hands reached for him, but he bit back and was too snippy and fast for their flailing grips to take hold of him. He easily slipped their grasp and nipped at their ankles, holding onto their pants legs, and pulling one or two of them to the ground, growling and barking as he made his play against them. The dog obviously smelled the death on their legs and knew not to attack the living whose scent was entirely different, so they let their new canine supporter do his thing since he was certainly no threat to them. Besides, right now, they needed all the help they could muster.

  An Amish zombie emerged from the struggling force of the living dead as the football team bashed them back. He was still inside his Amish taxi, and his horse was pulling the two wheeled contraption forward. The Amish taxi driver was obviously dead as told by the tell tale trails of blood that flowed down from his chin and onto his white Amish shirt. The fucker had been feeding on his cousins whose wounded bodies were exposed in lurid flashes of sunlight inside the hidden parts of the carriage, and their crazed zombie uncle was now planning on the football team members as his next meal. He was mistaken if he thought he'd bleed them for their intestines, because they were terrific fighters. The jocks focused on him as their next prey, and they were quick as snot about getting to his perch and pulling him off his stool and into the fray. When they bashed him, his head opened like that of a dropped watermelon. His red Amish zombie brains hit the air and spewed fresh blood pellets for a foot in circumference. "Die, you fuckers!" Aiden shouted as the next several platoons of blood soaked zombies drooled their way around around the corner with their stupid arms stretched out to grab the next unwary human.

  Aiden soon discovered that pulling them forward caused them to lose their balance and come crashing to the ground where his foot could be slammed into their skulls as another weapon he could use to crush their pretty faces as flat as a cookie sheet. It was just as effective as his baseball bat, and it offered even more immediate space in which to work.

  Aiden and his team mates killed one batch after the next, being careful not to allow themselves to be bitten. They had seen at their high school what happened to those who were bitten, and some of their high school friends appeared around the corner in each army of zombie hordes who had unwittingly staggered into their swinging baseball bats. The interesting thing was the way the zombies refused to learn any decent attack strategies. In addition, if someone turned up a car radio in their vicinity, they'd walk right toward it, no longer aware of the people close to them and almost begging for the humans to bash their heads with their swinging baseball bats from behind them where they had no protection at all. They were stupid to the max, almost like the urban legends of a school slut who just couldn't get enough of the jocks on the football team. There weren't too many girls like that, but all of a sudden there were plenty of zombies who wanted to be bashed into to
tal inanimate death and didn't care if fighters against them carried a weapon or not. They were still coming to get them and didn't care what their opponents did to them. Only the crushed skull stopped these guys and no amount of broken legs or ribs would cease their mindless activities if they were bent on killing humans. But crushing their brittle skulls was an easy key to stopping them dead in their tracks. Fortunately, it worked every time.

  CHAPTER TEN

  National Guard

  The Pennsylvania National Guard was a proud organization whose men and women were trained in a variety of military support objectives from aircraft support to ground reinforcement. When the call came to the commander's office from the Governor of Pennsylvania, units close to Lancaster were called up and ordered to meet. The general in charge was Grayson Andrews. He was a thick set general with a confidence that could easily radiate enough recklessness into soldiers to get them to impale themselves upon an enemies' roasting pike without even questioning the sanity of their orders. Over the years, many a man and boy had died under the excellence of his military tutelage. Trucks, armaments, fuel, and other assets were rapidly assembled from warehouses, garages, and armories so that in less than two hours a force of 350 men had assembled and received debriefing on one of the most surreal episodes since the Civil War when Gettysburg blew the hat off of both the Union and Confederate Forces. Everything General Grayson Andrews ordered appeared instantly and without question. His hold over his men was like that of a prophet who could deftly convince the most ancient Pharaoh in Egypt to build a fourth and fifth pyramid. If ever the earth had a quake left in it, this general's voice might easily unleash it.

  "We have reports of an epidemic in Lancaster which is a tourist town. The Amish farmers are the big draw. The only trouble, men, is that many of these Amish are now infected with what is being called 'Amish virus' for lack of a more sensitive term. For now, this is the exact phrase we will use to identify it. It passes from person to person from bites. Once it enters the body the person dies but is reanimated as a walking corpse in search of human flesh to eat. They get their energy from killing and eating people."

  Rumbles of laughter rolled forward from the back of the room.

  "Attention back there, if you don't mind. This is seriously dangerous. I have reports from the Governor, Highway Patrol, and citizen calls in that town that more than half of the population is dead and either reanimated or about to be reanimated. This is not Jesus Christ's work, gentlemen. This is a deadly situation, and Lancaster is right now an expendable city."

  A hand went up.

  "Yes, soldier."

  "Ram Olderson, sir. I was raised in Lancaster. I was wondering how many are walking around like that, sir?"

  "We just don't know. We'll find out more when we set up our perimeter, then approach the area in groups. Our plan is to isolate Lancaster. We will not let anyone in or out, infected or not infected. The orders are to kill all infected persons on the spot, before proceeding to the next. If they are not killed, they will continue to attack and infect others. They can only be killed by destroying the brain. You can shoot them, break their bones, cut off limbs, and they'll still keep coming at you. The fact is, they are dead, but for some reason their brain is still working just enough to allow them to stagger all over the landscape and to bite others in their paths and thereby spread the infection."

  The men mumbled.

  "I know. I know. We don't want to kill anyone, but these victims may move, but they are not alive. And, in any case, they are deadly."

  "What if we make a mistake and kill someone who is uninfected, sir? Are we going to be tried in a military court for murder?"

  "No. Our orders are to kill on sight. It is up to us to determine as best we can if the persons we kill are infected. You will be allowed to make a mistake. Every kill you make out there is a judgment call for which you will never be held responsible. However, it is your job to be responsible and to try your best to save people who are just running away. Some innocents are going to die at your hands, and you are going to have to live the rest of your lives. The fact is this. If you don't stop them here, they will continue to spread the disease until everyone in America is infected and running around trying to bite other people including your families. So, if you err in your clean up, that's to be overlooked. We are not doctors."

  "How do we tell a dead person from a living one?"

  "We are not sure. But the dead ones have bites. Those are the areas where they got infected. Everyone with a bite is to be considered a dead walker. You are expected and ordered here and now to kill everyone who was bitten whether they are still alive, resurrected, walking strangely, or whatever. Make no excuses. I don't care if its a little girl or your own daughter or son. If its bitten, you kill it. Am I understood?"

  "Yes, sir!"

  "I cannot hear you!"

  "Yes, sir!"

  "All right, then. Bring your gear, and good hunting to you!"

  #

  Eliott Blakely and Orren Lasswell were first year corporals. They had trained together and undergone summer camp. Now, they were driving a Hummer filled with high grade munitions and well trained men to what might be their deaths.

  "This is a crock of shit, ain't it?" Eliott said.

  "Sure is," Orren said. "I'd sure rather be at home with Norma drinking beers and watching TV."

  "Me, too, buddy."

  "How do you think we'll do?"

  "Dunno. Never killed anything but rabbits, deer, and squirrels. I don't want to be killing little girls, but orders are orders."

  "Do you think it's true?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "This could be a test, Eliott. They try to pull tests on guardsmen to sort out the crazies from the half-crazies."

  "What's the difference?"

  "My dad told me the crazies get promoted. Those men who have scruples are passed over. They aren't trusted to do their job and to watch the guys' backs in a fire fight."

  Suddenly, a walker and two dead kids stumbled onto the road.

  "What the fuck!"

  Eliott hit the breaks.

  "First blood!" he yelled.

  He jumped out of the hummer and aimed on the father first. The man had most of his stomach and throat missing. He stared straight ahead like an angel of death. His eyes were darkly inset, almost hidden in the way they were seemingly pushed into his brain-fucked skull too far. The entire zombie family gawked into Eliott's rifle barrel and were not the least afraid of it. Eliott proceeded. He squeezed off a shot between the man's eyes as he had been instructed to do. He missed. He heard the rifle automatically reloading its chamber and aimed again. This time he scored, and the father fell backwards and stopped moving. Next, he crushed the little girl's skull with his rifle and did the same to the little boy. As their skulls broke they fell backward.

  "You did it!" Orren yelled. "You fucker!"

  Eliott nudged them with his boot. They were not moving. Liquids in their ruined skulls seeped out to the pavement. Behind him, he heard the guys in their hummers whistling and applauding. "All right, Mr. Bad Ass!"

  Eliott didn't look back. He pounded their heads into the ground with his boots exactly as they had been instructed. Besides, they were already dead, weren't they?

  "Help me drag them off the road," Eliott ordered.

  Orren, who had frozen, bent down. They grabbed hands and feet and pulled them into the culvert on the side of the road. The man was the hardest, but the kids were like feathers. They were not as heavy as Eliott figured. They seemed slightly dried out and even somewhat desiccated as though their fluids had left them. He figured maybe this was why they craved blood from living humans. Perhaps the dead were dry, and they were really suffering mostly from thirst.

  "Let's get moving," Eliott said.

  He jumped back in the hummer. The engine was still running, He shifted and started up. It bucked as it usually did, then straightened up and flew down the road toward what Eliott knew would be Hell Town. "Oh, well
," he thought. "I killed three people including the guy's family."

  "How was it, Eliott?"

  "I'm okay," he said. "I'm okay."

  "Good."

  "You froze out there, Orren."

  "No, I didn't."

  "Yes. You did. It's all right. In an hour, you'll be killing them along with me. I know you will."

  Orren was silent. Could he kill people the way Eliott had? It was a question that was unanswered but soon would be. The worst that could happen if he choked up again was that he'd be ordered to the back for more training.

  "I gotta shoot them, Eliott."

  "Yes, you do. If you don't, they are going to kill us, and, if one bites me, you have to kill me, too, Orren. Promise me you'll do that for me. I don't want to come back as a killer like that."

  "I'll kill you. I promise."

  Eliott reached over and patted Orren's shoulder.

  "I trust you. Kill me. I don't want to be a fucking zombie with no brains."

  "I'll kill you, Eliott. You can count on it."

  "Good."

  Eliott wondered if Orren was lying and if he had it in him to kill him the way he was ordered to kill anyone and everyone who had been bitten. To do so without fail.

  If I die, kill me. Don't let me be a walker.

  #

  After several subsequent kills along the way, the National Guard finally rolled into Lancaster where they witnessed absolute mayhem. Living citizens were knifing, shooting, and hitting each other with bats. Evidently, they knew what they were doing, but to the Guard it didn't make sense. All of them were just about as bloody as the next. There were a few differences. For one thing, the living ones seemed to work faster. They had the upper hand in combat. However, if one of them was bitten, their buddy would turn without even thinking and crush his skull with a bat. Most were kids wearing tee shirts and faded blue jeans. They were bloodied all over from head to toe. The girls were fighting alongside the boys. Some seemed really good at what they were doing.